inking love on their skin
by Bookdancer
Summary: "Clint was born with words inked on his body, names like Steve and Barnes on the back of his right hand, and America? Commandos? written on his chest." Winterhawk, soulmate AU


_WARNING: child abuse and Clint's self-esteem issues, please don't read if either of these will trigger you. also a bunch of f-bombs, I'm sorry… it was going okay and then Barney Barton decided to cuss a lot and single-handedly destroyed my nice PG-13 rating (okay, so the Bartons as a whole destroyed my rating… but Barney contributed 3/5 Barton f-bombs…)_

 _Written based on clint-you-dummy's tumblr post: 140896470009(slash)inukagome15-brandnewfashion-natroze_

 _I do not own_ The Avengers _._ _Also, the repetitive lyrics that I used are from Bruce Springsteen's song "_ Badlands _"._

 _This is Bucky's handwriting._  
this is clint's handwriting  
THIS IS BARNEY'S HANDWRITING.

 _Also cross-posted to AO3 (I post under the same name) and tumblr (bookdancerfics)_

inking love on their skin

Clint was born with words inked on his body, names like _Steve_ and _Barnes_ on the back of his right hand, and _America? Commandos?_ written on his chest. His left arm was completely blank, but ink covered his legs like a second layer of skin and ran up his chest and around his sides, with the words all the same color but different sizes, blending together. When Clint found the pictures later he'd think that it looked like somebody was writing quickly, like they didn't want to forget anything.

Sometimes, when a baby is born, their soulmate has already lived long enough to be able to mark their own skin. Usually this results in pictures, so that the baby can look back and use them to find their soulmate. Usually. Usually, a baby isn't born with the majority of their body colored with ink. Clint tried to imagine his parents helping him decipher the words on his body. Instead, his daddy threw the pictures in his face. Then Harold Barton drove a fist into his four-year-old's head, and the last thing Clint remembers his daddy saying to him was "Freak! Who's born with that much ink? You looked like a fucking freak when you were born!" Then the world went silent.

That night, Clint lay huddled against Barney's chest, blood still oozing from his ears, and watched his brother write on his arm in big, uneven, blocky letters: I HATE YOU. STOP HURTING CLINT.

There was no response for days, but every time Clint looked at those words he reminded himself that even if Daddy hated him, even if his soulmate hated him, even if Mommy ignored him, Barney always loved him.

It wasn't until the letters were fading that tiny, almost minuscule words appeared directly below CLINT: _I'm sorry._

Clint wrote back with a pen he'd managed to snag from Daddy's desk: it's ok

* * *

No more messages came for Clint for a long time after that, but sometimes Clint would scrawl pictures or words on his own skin and wonder if his soulmate got them, if they were okay, if the markings made them smile.

Clint learned to read lips, or at least did his best to learn, decided he needed to be able to communicate even if his soulmate wouldn't. Sign language came next, and Barney learned with him, never asked why Clint learned the word "soulmate" first.

Clint and Barney's parents died, and Clint snuck a marker out of the orphanage's art supplies and drew flaming cars on his legs for weeks. Half of him wanted his soulmate to respond, to ask him what was wrong. The other half was scared of what would happen if they did, was glad when they didn't.

* * *

Barney punched a bigger kid when they told Clint that his soulmate was dead, when they made Clint cry. Clint peered at Barney's own skin the next day, when they were climbing the trees they weren't supposed to climb, and asked where Barney's markings were.

"Don't you have a soulmate?" he signed.

"No," Barney signed in reply.

Clint looked at his big brother, at Barney who was four years older and six inches taller, at Barney who used to sing Clint to sleep by humming deep in his throat and writing the same lyrics on his skin over and over and over, night after night (WELL, I BELIEVE IN THE LOVE THAT YOU GAVE ME). Clint looked at his big brother, "Why?"

"Don't want one, don't need one."

"… okay."

* * *

Clint's first night away from Barney, when he was in a foster home with three bigger boys and the foster parent was passed out on the couch with a beer, Clint wrote the lyrics himself.

well, i believe in the love that you gave me

* * *

Barney and Clint left the foster system behind as soon as possible, with the older Barton holding onto the younger's hand as tightly as he could. He held on so tightly that Clint didn't see _Steve_ written on his right hand until they had already arrived at the circus.

Clint fell asleep happy that night even though it was in a pile of hay, because Barney hummed and WELL, I BELIEVE IN THE LOVE THAT YOU GAVE ME was on the back of his neck where he couldn't see it, but he could feel it for the first time in months, secure in the knowledge that he was loved, and his soulmate wasn't dead but communicating again.

Clint wrote to his soulmate early the next morning, before the sun had risen, while the rest of the circus still slept.

i'm not steve

 _Steve_ darkened even as he watched, but it was jagged and happened slowly, as if his soulmate was pressing hard with whatever pen they were using. Clint knew it was a pen, because the print was thin and tiny and a marker couldn't do that, couldn't make his soulmate seem vulnerable.

are you steve?

 _No._

i'm not steve

There was no response for several minutes, so Clint went on, writing down his right forearm because his soulmate seemed to like that one.

my name's clint

what's yours?

The conversation they were having was starting to look a lot like the grocery lists Mommy used to make. He hoped they'd actually have a real conversation someday, out loud, because most of the things on Mommy's grocery lists never made it home. Daddy said it was because Clint used up too much money. Barney said Daddy drank too much.

There was blank space for a while, to the point where Clint was afraid someone would come in and get him and Barney for work, but finally: _Winter_.

that's a weird name, Clint wrote, and then scribbled it out, because it sounded mean, and scrawled, sorry

He waited until the sun came up and another worker came for him and Barney, waited until the end of the day when the sun went down and he was still working, blisters forming on his right hand but he was so careful with his left, wanted to be able to write on his arm, but his soulmate never answered.

* * *

 _Steve_ appeared again almost two years later, months after Clint had become Trickshot and the Swordsman's apprentice, and Barney would ignore Clint during the day but still hum and write lyrics on Clint's skin at night.

Clint went searching for a pen, found one in Carson's office, and hid on top of Carson's trailer with his body pressed flat to the roof.

hi winter

He waited for a while, squirming every now and then because he was only twelve, okay, and Trickshot called for him at least twice but Clint stayed still each time. Talking with his soulmate was worth whatever punishment he would be given.

 _How do you know my name?_

The words were written carefully this time, in strange juxtaposition to Clint's own childish scrawl, as if Winter was no longer rushing.

you told me, remember?

 _No._

 _I don't remember anything._

 _Steve?_

 _I don't know._

okay

i'm clint

 _Hi, Clint._

This time it was Clint who didn't answer, because it turned out that Trickshot enlisted the Swordsman's help in finding him, and Clint was skinny and light enough that he slipped right off the roof when Jacques yanked his arm. Carson took the pen away, scolded him for stealing it even when Clint swore he would've given it back.

Clint stumbled back to his and Barney's shared trailer late that night, with his arms sore and aching from shooting all day and his cheek throbbing from where Jacques had punched him.

Barney was already asleep in their shared bed ("Only enough money for one," Carson always said), and Clint couldn't find the pen - Barney kept it hidden, because little things like that got stolen all the time - so Clint stumbled into bed, huddling at the very edge because nowadays Barney was always the first one to initiate contact. Clint hummed to himself, closed his eyes, and fell asleep surprisingly quickly.

The next morning Clint awoke to _Well, I believe in the love that you gave me_ written carefully across his chest.

* * *

Words turned up on Clint's hand three more times before he turned seventeen, and Clint realized at the first time, at _Steve_ , that this was his life now. His soulmate had no idea who he was. His soulmate had some kind of repeating amnesia thing going on. His soulmate only ever remembered two names: Winter and the name of some other guy who wasn't his soulmate. Clint tried not to think about whoever Steve was.

The second time, Clint kept scratching his right arm, legs, and torso all day until he finally stripped in his trailer and found what looked like an entire novel written over his body. He tried reading some of it, but most words were too crammed together and illegible, with few exceptions: _Steve, howling,_ and _Clint_ were three of them, and Clint felt relieved that at least he hadn't been forgotten. Not yet. He pulled out the photos from when he was a newborn and realized that most of the writing was the same, except now there were also words across his hips.

Clint was sixteen when it happened for the third time, and this was another slow time… except it wasn't _Steve_ on his hand, but _Clint_ , and he took Barney's pen and wrote back as fast as he could.

i'm here

 _Who are you?_

Clint would have cried if he thought his red eyes wouldn't be noticed and punished ("Real men don't cry" should've been on the Swordsman's promotion poster, he said it so much).

i'm your soulmate

There was no reply for several minutes, but finally words formed on Clint's skin.

 _I'm Winter._

i know

A month later, Barney pushed Clint from their shared bed under the claim that it was too small for the both of them, but Clint knew Barney was finally done with him. It was the first night in years that Clint wasn't lulled to sleep with humming and his brother's lyrics.

Nothing happened that night, but the next night _Well, I believe in the love that you gave me_ appeared on his chest again, and again the next night, and then alternating legs, and his right arm, and his sides, and over and over and over again for the next several weeks as Winter curled love around Clint's body.

The first night that it didn't happen, Clint cried himself to sleep.

* * *

When Clint was seventeen he found Trickshot, the Swordsman, and Barney huddled around Carson's safe in the main office. They all turned to look at him, and Clint thought he could maybe see grief already shining in his brother's eyes, but Clint's mentors were ruthless, always had been, and Clint knew that fact like he knew the bruises they had seared on his skin, dark shades of yellow and purple and blue and sometimes black.

Clint ran.

He ignored the shouts behind him, focused on the lyrics he'd pressed into his own skin, focused on survival, and ran.

He didn't look back.

* * *

Clint was eighteen when _Clint_ appeared on his right hand again, almost causing him to miss his first target in five years. At the last second he managed to correct his aim and hit the mark, but it was a close thing. He spent the first few minutes cussing Winter out because really? Now? This was the biggest job Clint had taken since he'd begun hiring himself out as an assassin, and Winter almost messed it all up.

Then _Well, I believe_ fell into line below _Clint_ , and a small smile pulled his lips upward for the first time in weeks, and Winter was forgiven.

in the love that you gave me

Clint finished the lyrics and then waited, his hands shaking as he slung his quiver and bow into the duffel bag he'd brought with him. He stood on the roof of an apartment building in New York City, the best place to hide in his opinion; his safe house was about twenty blocks away. He'd have a bit of a walk, but he had a pen with him and figured it would pass quickly if he talked with Winter the whole time. He just had to get off the roof first.

 _Clint?_

yeah

Clint opened the roof door and jogged down the stairs, his feet moving quickly on the edges of each step.

 _I remember you._

A grin crossed Clint's face before he could stop it, but then he frowned.

how much?

 _Not a lot._

Clint opened the door on the first floor to a mad rush of people, but Clint could only make out the faint, dim sounds of them all reacting to the dead body outside. He poked an ear, frustrated as usual. When he'd become Hawkeye, Carson had bought him a pair of cheap, crappy, but usable hearing aids. Those same aids had broken the first week he'd left the circus, stomped on by a pair of guys trying to mug him. The muggers hadn't gotten far. Unfortunately, neither had the aids. Clint planned on using the money from this job to pay for new ones.

what?

 _Huh?_

what do you remember?

 _Soulmates? Well, I believe…_

 _Talking. Only ever on this arm._

 _Steve. Who's Steve?_

Clint bit back a growl as he left the building. Everything always came back to Steve.

not important

 _It is._

not to me

you've got me. why do you need him?

 _I don't know who he is._

good, Clint wrote angrily, shoving his way past the crowd gathering on the sidewalk. Why did Winter always have to bring up Steve? He glanced down at his arm, where their conversation had reached the inside of his elbow. Letters were forming.

 _You don't mean that._

"-arton?"

Someone stopped him before he could respond to Winter, Clint just catching the tail end of what was probably his name forming on the man's lips. He was an older man, slightly balding already and in a suit, standing in front of Clint with his arms behind his back. He held his head up with his lips in plain view, as if he knew that Clint needed them to understand what he was saying.

"What's it to you?" Clint grunted, getting ready to push past.

"My … Phil Coulson; … like to … you … questions."

"I don't do surveys," Clint said, walking around the other man. "And I've got somewhere else to be, anyway."

Coulson grabbed Clint's arm and blocked a move that would've found him on his back and Clint halfway down the street. Swinging Clint around so he could see Coulson's lips, the older man spoke in what Clint guessed was a cooler, starting-to-get-irritated voice. "You've got nowhere … to be but here, … you want to end up in jail, I … you start listening."

* * *

Joining the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, it turned out, was just as lengthy a process as the organization's name. Coulson insisted it was for ensured security. Clint rolled his eyes so hard he thought he may have seen his own brain, because that was bullshit and even Coulson knew it, if his frown was anything to go by (it always was).

Clint attempted to apologize to Winter and simultaneously ignore the fact that all the extra paperwork, psych evals, and other clearance tests were clearly because he was Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye, i.e. archer assassin extraordinaire, and therefore couldn't be trusted even when he didn't want to kill anyone.

The former worked about as well as the latter. That is to say, not at all, because apparently child abuse and daddy issues and constant betrayal made Clint more than a little paranoid with severe self-esteem issues, and Winter hadn't said anything since Clint met Coulson for the first time.

That meant that Winter's last words to Clint were _You don't mean that_ , which made Clint feel shitty every time he thought about them. Basically 24/7, because of course Clint had severe self-esteem issues that made sure he hated himself at least every second of every minute of every day.

He wrote 'well, i believe in the love that you gave me' on whatever bare skin he had every night, and hoped that at the very least Winter saw it and at the very most Winter didn't hate him for it. Clint already hated himself enough for the two of them.

* * *

It turned out that there was at least one good thing about joining S.H.I.E.L.D.: being able to communicate at one's maximum ability was apparently a mandatory obligation for all agents, which meant Clint got expensive hearing aids for free, courtesy of the organization.

Clint supposed he could only wish communication problems with Winter could be solved so easily with no recompense.

* * *

Two more years passed, and Clint figured that Winter's apparent plan of ignoring Clint had turned into yet another phase of amnesia. He continued to write lyrics on his body, because no matter what, Winter would always deserve them, even if Clint himself didn't.

Sometimes he wrote directly to Winter in the hopes that his soulmate would write back, but all of the writing on Clint's body remained his own.

* * *

The day that Clint found the Black Widow was the first day in years that Winter's handwriting appeared on Clint's skin. It caught Romanov's attention mid-fight, her thighs wrapped around Clint's neck and her leg muscles tight, pinning Clint to the ground while one hand restrained his wrists and another pointed a gun at his head. She froze with her finger on the trigger, Clint only just beginning to regret giving her another chance, and he watched Romanov's mouth form the words he could feel itching themselves into his skin.

 _Well, I believe in the love that you gave me._

Romanov looked at Clint then, her green eyes almost wistful as her finger moved from the gun's trigger.

"Your soulmate?" she said. Clint nodded. "What's their name?"

Clint felt a brief thrum of happiness when she said "their"; usually he had to explain to people that his soulmate was a "he," not a "she." Out of all the things he hated most in the world, heteronormativity was probably right behind Winter's repetitive amnesia.

"Winter," Clint said. "His name's Winter." He paused then, uncertain about what he was about to ask, but then he went for it. "Yours?"

"Don't have one," Romanov said, and despite how much she tried to hide it, Clint caught that same emotion that she had displayed earlier… she may not have had one, but she certainly wanted one. "Not that you care," she continued, and suddenly her legs were tightening even more and her arms straightened, her finger going back to the trigger.

"My brother!" Clint managed to gasp, trying to look the other assassin in the eye. Romanov paused again.

"If you're trying to get my sympathy so I don't kill you, you're both a coward and sorely mistaken about who I am."

"No, no, no…" Clint said, trying to keep his voice even. "My brother… he… he didn't have one, either."

Finally, she lowered the gun. It would still hit his shoulder if it went off, but at least it wouldn't be his head.

"I'm listening."

"Uh, he didn't have a soulmark," Clint said, trying to remember what Barney had said about it. "It's rare, but… it's not impossible."

Romanov nodded slowly, obviously thinking about what he had said. Then she swung the gun at his head.

* * *

Clint woke up with a groan, his eyes automatically finding Coulson, who sat next to him in a chair. The older agent had a Stark tablet in his lap, his finger occasionally tapping the screen. From the rough fabric Clint could feel beneath him, he figured that he must be laying on one of the beds in their safehouse.

"Romanov?" Clint grunted, slowly moving his hands so that they pressed flat against the bed. His arms wobbled as he pushed himself into a sitting position, making Clint frown in concentration, but eventually he made it. "What's…?"

Coulson didn't bother looking up from whatever he was reading, but pushed a bottle of water toward Clint on the side table.

"You have a concussion," Coulson said, "Romanov's in the other room, sleeping, just like we would be if you had followed instructions. Unlike if you had, for once in your life, done what you were told, we're still in Budapest. Apparently Fury and the Council were rather unhappy with what you did, and decided that we'll be remaining here, you and Romanov under my supervision, until I've deemed you both sound of mind."

Coulson looked up then, one eyebrow raised as if to say "shall I continue?" Clint nodded, and Coulson went back to his tablet, still speaking.

"I have yet to determine whether "sound of mind" for you, Barton, means you haven't been compromised, or means you aren't about to have an aneurism due to this unexpected development of you having a soulmate, of which there were no prior records or evidence of."

This time, Clint decided, Coulson's raised eyebrow was definitely meant to be scolding him.

"Er, amnesia, sir," Clint said.

"You do not have amnesia, Barton, so don't try pulling that with me."

"Not me, Coulson… my soulmate. Some kind of repetitive thing. He only remembers me about every two years or so."

"You really expect me to believe that, Barton?"

Clint nodded. "It's the truth, Phil, I swear. Every couple years, there's a time period where Winter - he's my soulmate - goes absolutely crazy and starts writing everything he remembers onto his body… and mine. Then there's this period of time where there's nothing… I write to him, but he never says anything back. And then it starts all over again. We try to communicate when he still remembers, but otherwise…" Clint shrugged and then hunched his shoulders.

"You're telling the truth," Coulson said. Clint nodded. "Have you tried finding each other?"

Clint shook his head, "We haven't gotten past each other's names yet, and I don't have anything besides "Winter"… I don't even know if it's his first or last name."

"Why haven't you asked for more information?"

Clint shrugged again. "Haven't had the opportunity."

"Do it," Coulson ordered.

Clint looked at him blankly. "What?"

"You're gonna regret it for the rest of your life if you never find him, Barton, trust me. I'm going to check on Romanov, make sure she hasn't escaped yet. You…" Coulson waved his hands restlessly as he stood up, leaving the tablet on his chair and pulling a pen from his pocket, which he placed on the side table. "You do your thing."

"Yes, sir," Clint said, and watched as his handler opened the door to the other room.

Coulson looked back just before he went through. "Good luck, Barton."

"Thank you, sir."

winter

Clint waited then, anxiously scrubbing at his skin, which had gained what would look like an extraordinary amount of words to anyone but Clint in the time since Romanov had knocked him out.

Finally, though, Winter responded.

 _Who are you?_

clint… my name is clint

i'm your soulmate

winter, where do you live?

what's your full name?

 _I'm in Paris._

 _They call me the Winter Soldier._

they?

 _I don't know._

where in paris?

 _I don't know._

 _Sorry._

it's okay

 _I can see the Eiffel Tower._

how close is it? what else?

 _Maybe a couple miles or so._

 _I'm in a hotel._

 _There's a bakery across the street._

Clint waited to see if there was going to be more coming, but there was nothing.

winter? you still there?

Clint stared at his writing, which was almost at the top of his right arm. Then his side began to itch.

 _Yes._

It curved over his right hip, marking his body in a way that no one else ever had, not even Winter himself, because whenever Winter wrote there, it was just a jumble of words. This was one word, inky black on Clint's pale skin, standing there alone. It looked and felt weirdly intimate, and Clint touched it gently, pressing on it. Even with his thumb covering it, Clint couldn't shake the feeling. He let out a deep breath and switched his pen to his right hand, which would make it easier to write in that area. Pulling his shirt further up, he started writing.

is anyone with you?

 _No. Clint_

Clint waited, but nothing else came.

winter?

 _I don't know why I'm here._

i'll help you

 _How?_

i'll come get you

 _I won't be here._

why?

 _They're coming soon._

who? winter, you need to give me more than this

 _The people who call me the Winter Soldier. They'll take me away._

i won't let them

 _They'll stop you… kill you._

i'd like to see them try

Clint wrote the words in a rush, hoping that Winter understood exactly how hard Clint would fight to keep Winter with him.

There was no response.

* * *

Turned out, Romanov hadn't attempted to escape, which meant that Clint and Natasha were officially partners, according to Coulson. Unfortunately for Clint, Winter had gone silent again. He could only hope that they would both live long enough to acknowledge each other again.

Instead, Clint talked with Natasha.

"It's not that I feel the need for a soulmate," she said one night. Phil had shoved them off base for the night, telling them to "get trashed but not trashed enough to be dysfunctional in the morning." So Clint and Natasha found a small bar in the corner of Manhattan, dumped themselves into an even smaller corner of that bar, and plied themselves with alcohol in the hopes of loosening each other's tongue. "I don't even feel attraction."

"So what do you feel?" Clint asked, topping up her vodka after she downed it.

Natasha was silent for several seconds, staring into her glass as if it had suddenly offered to grant her three wishes, but she didn't know what to do with them. "The need to be normal. If I'm normal, maybe I can be human again."

Clint shook his head, topped up his own glass. "You are normal," he insisted, and tried to deny that he was thinking of Barney as he said it. "And human. Normal and human. And I'll punch anyone who tries to tell you differently."*

* * *

Years passed, and every now and then Clint would get a surprise message from Winter.

 _The love that you gave me._

 _Clint._

 _I'm in Russia._

 _Phuket._

 _Nigeria._

 _New York._

The last one had sent Clint scrambling for the phone, yelling at Natasha to "get into a fucking taxi, Winter's in New York, you have to do something!"

"Where is he?"

where are you?

 _Central Park._

"Tasha, he's in Central Park!"

"On my way."

a friend is on her way,

just stay where you are!

Natasha texted him later, when he was pacing his small S.H.I.E.L.D. issued room hoping that for once his life would give him apples or something instead of lemons, "chk the news".

Clint flicked on the TV. Seconds later, he dropped to sit on the edge of his bed and stared at the headline, WEALTHY CEO MURDERED IN CENTRAL PARK. To the right of the TV station's reporter was a box with video of the crime scene.

"-porting live," the reporter said, and Clint covered his face with one hand while he texted with the other.

"tll me it wasnt"

"not the ceo"

"assassin?"

"im sorry"

* * *

Clint knew, of course, that his soulmate being an assassin didn't necessarily mean that he was a lost cause. He certainly hadn't been, and neither had Natasha. But Winter… suddenly all of the countries made sense. The amnesia didn't, but he figured it would eventually.

Hopefully.

* * *

The next night, Clint finally looked for Winter in a place that he was shocked he hadn't looked before: S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records.

He found the Winter Soldier listed under the organization's most dangerous and most wanted, where Natasha used to reside. He ranked number three on the list, right after the Red Skull and A.I.M. and before Doctor Doom. Clint remembered Natasha being number three, as well. It seemed that with her switch of loyalties, Winter had risen in the rankings.

Winter's record was surprisingly slim for how long he had supposedly been around for. Numerous years stood blank, and Clint numbly typed in places that he knew Winter had been but S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't been aware of. At the top of the record, Clint added, "ATTN: SUBJECT MAY BE UNDER CONTROL OF A HIGHER ORGANIZATION. PROCEED WITH CAUTION."

On his own arm, Clint wrote

well, i believe

He woke up to

 _In the love that you gave me._

* * *

Barney showed up on Clint's next mission. He didn't ask questions, just did as Clint directed. Clint wondered, of course. Why did Barney show up now? Did he have any ulterior motives? And the one that picked at the back of his mind, the one he refused to consider in case he was wrong: What if Barney really wanted to turn good?

The bad-guy-of-the-week (someone called Marko** or something, Clint was too focused on the fact that Barney was back) took advantage of the Barton reunion, and the next thing Clint knew, the building he was in got blasted higher than Tony Stark's IQ.

When everything finally quieted, Clint groaned in the rubble and rubbed at his ears, where his hearing aids should have been. Time for them to go back to R an explosion shouldn't have been able to knock them out that easily.

He looked up to find himself facing the mouth of a gun, Marko holding the other end of it.

"- go- … kill … both," Marko screamed, spittle flying. Clint squinted, trying to make out the movement of the crook's lips.

"Useless," he finally said, and then directed his next words to Marko, "You have a really big mouth, one would think that I should actually understand you. But no."

Marko's eyes blazed. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

"Now that I understood…"

Clint closed his eyes as the gun jerked.

Two guns went off.

Clint opened his eyes. Barney's body lay a foot away from his own head, Marko's corpse a good dozen feet beyond with a bullet hole in his forehead.

"Barney?"

The older brother grimaced as Clint rolled him over.

"Hey, little bro…"

"Barney, no…"

"Hey… hey… I'm not … die, yeah? Just… just … sleep a little."

* * *

The bullet, Clint found out, had hit Barney's spine and paralyzed him from the waist down. When he picked his brother up from the hospital, he pushed him out in a wheelchair.

"You should know that I was undercover," Barney said. "I'm not a bad person, Clint. Or at least I'm trying not to be."

"Undercover?"

"With the FBI."

Clint dropped Barney off at a farm in the middle of Iowa.

"No one finds him," he told Fury. "Not unless S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to lose an agent."

* * *

Things moved fast after that. Natasha went undercover with Tony Stark, took Phil with her, and Clint stuck it out in the helicarrier's med-bay after he fell four stories into a dumpster.

"Story of my life," he joked with Fury, who just stared at him impassively. "It's supposed to be funny," Clint tried.

Fury's eyepatch twitched.

"Morbid," Clint said, "but funny."

"Go to sleep, Barton," Fury said, and then leaned back in his crappy plastic chair. It sat within arm distance of Clint's hospital bed.

"Knew you cared," Clint mumbled, but let his painkillers drag him under.

Fury woke him up the next morning with a hand on his shoulder, the one not immobilized in a sling. Clint met Fury's wide eyes with his own and, somehow, he knew what awaited him.

He shuffled to a somewhat sitting-up position and then stared at his right hand, at what little of his legs he could see, and then peeled back the sheets and shirked the top half of his hospital gown. Words covered most of his torso and continued to stretch beneath the sheets.

"Your soulmate a damn novelist or something?" Fury asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Or something," Clint said.

* * *

Three months later, Clint touched down in New Mexico on shaky, but healed, legs, and met Coulson in dry heat and a plastic headquarters.

He met Thor in the pouring rain with an immovable hammer and, to be quite frank, 'nuff said. The guy was literally a god.

But he wasn't Winter.

* * *

Clint's life went blue.

"You have heart," Loki said, and Clint refused to believe that this would be it. He still had to meet Winter. He hardened his mind, welcomed Natasha's cognitive recalibration, and battled with superhumans, supersuits, and even his own superassassin.

"Steve Rogers," Captain America said after the battle, in the middle of shawarma. Natasha thumped Clint on the back when he choked and pointed a shaking finger in Cap's direction, remembering what he had read in Winter's file.

"You… of course," Clint groaned. He tipped his head back and shook it at the ceiling. "Now it all makes sense."

* * *

He spent the next few months in Captain America's section of the Natural History Museum, staring at pictures of Bucky Barnes and reading his bibliography.

"He's a righty," Clint muttered to himself. "Guess he had to teach himself how to write left-handed."

"What's that?" Clint looked over to a museum guide, who peered at him over her glasses, curiosity written all over her face.

"Nothing," he said. "He's fascinating, that's all."

"Shame that he went out the way he did, huh?"

"Over the side of a train?" Clint shrugged. "Fast and relatively painless, as long as he died on impact. All in all, I could imagine worse."

He left her standing, mouth open, next to Bucky's wax figure, and tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him that obviously Bucky hadn't died on impact.

Clint found Steve, roughed him up a little, let Steve kick his butt and told him that there was a tracker in his suit.

His next visit to the museum, it took everything in him to not laugh at the empty space where Captain America's uniform used to stand.

* * *

Clint got shot.

He cursed out Baron Strucker and the rest of Hydra, wished ill tidings on the mutant who got the upper hand on him, and then clutched Natasha's hand as he got prepped for skin regeneration.

"Dr. Cho," Clint said.

"Yes?" she responded. "It won't hurt a bit, I promise."

"Not that. No, uh, my skin. It'll still be my skin, right?"

"Yes."

"So my soulmate…" he clutched Natasha's hand tighter.

"You'll still be able to communicate there, yes."

"Thank you."

* * *

Clint didn't get shot.

He watched Pietro fall, blood coating his uniform, and choked out "I'm so sorry." He directed it to Pietro's soulmate, wherever they existed in the world. He couldn't find the courage to write it on Pietro's skin.

* * *

Clint traced the words on his skin with reverence. They had appeared just in the past week, thin and rushed and jumbled, just like always. Suddenly, though, Clint found new meaning with them. New purpose.

He leaned back in his chair and then looked up, directing his gaze to Barney.

"I won't go if you need me," he promised. "You're my brother."

"And he's your soulmate, right?" Barney replied.

The two sat in the farmhouse's living room with only a coffee table to separate them. A coffee table, at least six years of regrets, and Clint's soulmate markings. Barney's wheelchair sat on the other side of Barney's chair; they had determined long ago, when Clint first lost his hearing, that they would never let their disabilities get in the way of their relationship.

"Yeah," Clint said finally.

"… you love him?"

"I think I do. Or I could. I dunno, Barney, I haven't even met 'im yet."

"Then I think you should go."

"Cap said…"

Barney interrupted while poking a finger at Clint's hand, right where Bucky had written his name. "Cap said some guy named Bucky Barnes needs your help, and you said that Bucky is also the Winter Soldier, aka your soulmate. And I don't know if you remember this or not, little brother, but you bawled your eyes out that day at the orphanage."

"… what day?"

"The day that a couple bullies decided to tell you that your soulmate was dead. You cried your fucking eyes out, Clint, telling me that you wished you could have at least met him before he disappeared forever."

"What's your point?"

Barney paused, gathering his thoughts. "Don't let some guy in spandex keep you from doing what you've always wanted just because suddenly you're not the only one who wants it. That's really fucking stupid, Clint. I may not have a soulmate, and I may not want or need one, but you do. And you made it clear to me, from the first time you could talk, that your soulmate is your everything. Well, Clint… it just so happens that your soulmate made it obvious to me from day one that you're _his_ everything, too. So be each other's everything, and don't let Captain fucking America keep you from that. He's Steve, right?"

Clint nodded.

"You've wanted to kick Steve's ass for as long as I can remember. So go kick his ass."

"Technically I'll be kicking Tony's ass…"

Barney waved his hands in a dismissive manner. "Details. Go kick everyone's ass if you want to. But go and save your boyfriend while you're at."

* * *

As soon as their plane landed in Germany, Clint made Wanda drive. He sat in the front passenger seat and dug a pen out of the glove compartment. Ignoring Scott's snores from the back seat, he finally scratched out a reply to Winter, the first one since before New Mexico. Since Loki.

hi

 _Clint?_

yeah

 _I thought you gave up on me._

i could never do that

not to you

 _You didn't respond._

i know

i'm sorry

i'll be able to explain in person

There was no response for several minutes, and Clint scrubbed at his arm in frustration. He eventually took to staring out the window, if only to ignore Wanda's curious glances. Finally, though, his skin began to itch.

 _What do you mean, "in person"?_

exactly that

Clint looked up to see a parking garage looming out his window.

"Here," he told Wanda.

She turned the car in without hesitation.

A minute later, Clint watched as an old blue car appeared around the corner.

"You nervous?" Wanda said.

"What?"

"You look more scared than I've ever seen you."

"You've never seen me scared."

Looking back at Wanda, Clint tried to relax as she grinned at him.

"Point taken," he allowed.

Wanda parked, and they all got out of their vehicles at the same time. Clint tried to smile at the one he recognized as Bucky Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier… aka his soulmate. Then he waved the pen at him.

you look like crap, he wrote.

Bucky looked at the pen, then at his arm, and then, finally, at Clint.

Clint shrugged a little, tried to paste a confident look on his face. He was pretty sure he failed. Epically.

"You suck," Bucky said.

"Bucky?" Steve answered, startled.

"I get that a lot," Clint said.

"The hell is happening?"*** Steve asked.

"Sorry, Cap," and then Clint was on Bucky. They didn't kiss. They didn't do any of the things soulmate books and websites and articles and who knows what else said that soulmates do when they first meet. Instead Clint grabbed Bucky's arm, brushed his thumb over his own handwriting. Bucky snatched Clint's own arm, just stared at the writing there. At the list. Clint's chest started to burn as he realized that something - some _one_ \- had finally made it home off that list.

* * *

EPILOGUE:

Clint wakes up to a heavy weight resting on his waist and a warm heat against his back, the soft sensation of fingers running over his stomach.

H I

"Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?" Clint whisper-laughs. When he opens his eyes, the sun streams through his curtains and paints the whole room a soft purple.

?

"You're being disgustingly sappy." Clint puts in his hearing aids and then shuffles so that he can face Bucky, look into his eyes and kiss him good morning.

"Says the one kissing me," Bucky smiles. His hand runs up Clint's back to tug at his blonde hair.

Clint hums into another kiss. "You started it."

"Mmm, don't start that."

"Start what?"

"The kissing. The arguing. The everything. Eventually I'm going to wake up and you won't be there."

Clint shifts back to get a better look at Bucky's eyes. "I won't be where?"

"With me. Hydra. Which means you aren't being tortured or… used," Bucky says the last word with the disgust of a person who knows what that feels like. Clint listens with the resignation of someone who understands because he has felt the same thing. "Which is good. But then they'll make me forget again. And when I wake up, all I'll have will be words to write on my own skin."

Bucky stops talking, and Clint waits a beat to make sure that he's truly done. Then he speaks.

"And my words."

"What?"

"My words," Clint tells him. "On my skin and yours." He settles back against Bucky, chest to chest, and loops an arm around the other man's waist, tugging him closer. This time he is the one embracing Bucky. "But you don't need to worry about that." Clint needs to stop, then, needs to take a moment to think; Bucky isn't the only one to have doubts about his reality. "Because this… this is real."

"Prove it," Bucky says.

Clint reaches behind him to the notepad he knows he left on his bedside table, to the pen still laying on top of that paper. And then he reaches for Bucky's arm.

well, i believe

The words, written on Bucky's arm in Clint's handwriting, appear on Clint's arm in the same place. Unbidden, unwritten, only there because Clint wrote them on Bucky's arm. Not Bucky on Bucky's arm, or Clint on Clint's arm. Clint on Bucky's arm. Something that wouldn't be possible if they weren't physically together.

Bucky takes the pen from Clint, finishes the lyrics on Clint's arm.

 _In the love that you gave me._

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _* Clint isn't having any of anyone's aphobic shit. This is definitely canon._

 _** So I screwed with Barney's time line a lot in this. Basically I pulled the parts of canon that I like, kept some others that I thought were important, and tossed the rest of it into the fire where it can burn. In the original canon, Barney and Clint do meet up to face a crook named Marko (at least according to Marvel Wikia they do), but it goes a little differently. Barney is still with the FBI, but Clint hasn't met S.H.I.E.L.D. yet and is actually robbing Marko's mansion with not-Barney-Trickshot. The whole situation ends with Clint accidentally shooting Barney, turning against Trickshot, and Clint getting shot himself. There was another situation where the Barton brothers meet up with Barney undercover for the FBI, one where Barney sacrifices himself for the mission, but Clint is already an Avenger here. It's also canon that Barney becomes paralyzed at some point (in Fraction's verse it's while he's helping Clint with the Russian mafia). I really don't know much about this storyline, but I think it's an important one in several regards so I decided to include it here. However, in regards to Clint, Barney, and Bucky, I am an able-bodied author writing characters with disabilities. Please, if you feel like I messed up in any way, tell me and I will do my best to fix it._

 _** To be honest, Clint and Barney's storylines are really muddled and differ a lot over different comic issues and verses. A lot of what I chose to use, then, are either facts that I took from fanon itself, or things that I pulled and stitched together from canon. I can only hope that the end result is worth reading._

 _*** Sorry if this disappoints anyone, but I am firmly of the belief that Steve Rogers knows how to swear and does so freely._

 _Also, I am now on tumblr as bookdancerfics ! Please come and say hi. Sometimes I post writing updates._


End file.
